


Purple Heliotropes and Pink Carnations

by a_single_drop_of_ink



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Anniversary, Because Kansan Clark tending a garden is adorable, Bruce is best dad, Bruce misses his son, Flower meanings, Fluff, Gardens, Grief/Mourning, Jason was best kid, M/M, Many apologies, Misunderstandings, Oops, Soft Bruce, Soft Clark, SuperBat, been meaning to upload this for over a month now, no this has not been editted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27487042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_single_drop_of_ink/pseuds/a_single_drop_of_ink
Summary: The garden grew down the block and around the corner from Bruce’s home. It was one of his favorite spots in the city, full of life and color, a shocking relief from the dark existence he normally led.He stopped by this garden every week. He would wander among the flowers for up to an hour, stopping to smell the rich sweetness of the jasmine, or the artificial cocoa of the chocolate daisy. He would then pick a few choice blossoms and be on his way.But that day found him in an awful hurry.He rushed into the garden, beelining towards the heliotrope bush that bloomed at the very back. He plucked a few bundles of the purple flower and began scouring the garden for the pink carnation bush he’d spotted blooming the last time he’d been there.“Undying love, and undying love, is it? Who's the lucky lady to be receiving these today?” The voice that spoke was deep, with a rather heavy Kansas accent, and scared the life out of poor Bruce
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 7
Kudos: 107





	Purple Heliotropes and Pink Carnations

Bruce Wayne was a man of simple pleasures. A quiet evening on a rooftop, a sudden shower in spring, even a small cat walking across his path would bring a smile to his face. Most people who knew Bruce, however, would have been positively astonished to hear that. 

They thought that such a dark and brooding man would be completely unable to feel joy, simple or not. They were convinced that the Bruce Wayne, legendary for his microexpressions being the only signs that he wasn’t absolutely furious at everyone and anyone around him, would never, ever do something as horrendously happy as smile at something cute or pretty.

They would have laughed to hear someone tell them that they saw Bruce Wayne cooing softly at a puppy or handing a small child a candy. 

Bruce himself thought he was rather entitled to his small joys in life. He had led a life of pain and darkness and he deserved a little light now and then.

Which was why Bruce found himself standing in the middle of a virtual garden of Eden one spring afternoon. 

Flowers were one of the things Bruce took the most joy in. The millions of colors and petals and scents fascinated him.

When he was younger, he would spend hours upon hours trailing after his butler, Alfred, as he went about his gardening duties, determined to learn everything there was to know about plants and flowers and life. 

This particular garden, however, was somewhat of a mystery to Bruce. Not because of the plants growing in it, Bruce had long since learned all he could about the types of flowers: their appearances, their attributes, their meanings, and how to care for thm. 

No, what bewildered him about this particular garden was where it had come from.

To say Gotham wasn’t known for its bright colors and lively streets was far too much of an understatement.

Any colors besides greys, browns, and blacks, with the occasional splash of crimson red were virtually unheard of. 

So to have been wandering the streets and turned the corner into a literal paradise on earth, well, it left Bruce more than a little surprised. 

The first thing that caught his attention were the greens. There were bright yellow-greens, deep forest greens, dark olive greens, and everything in between. The vibrancy of these greens was what had initially shocked him. Even in the middle of the rainforests of South America had he not seen these levels of vividness. They were by every definition thriving on that little corner in the heart of the harshest city in the country. 

And as luck had it, this little garden was exactly on the way to his weekly outing, and from the looks of it he could see no signs of an owner. 

Obviously there had to be one, such a lively garden didn’t just spring up from seeds dropped by birds or something.

But there were no residential buildings nearby and no signs of tools or people any of the times Bruce visited it over the next month.

Each time he would spend an hour or so just wandering through the veritable maze of greenery. The sheer amount of plants that fit in that tiny plot of land never ceased to amaze him. 

There were layers upon layers of plants climbing over his head, twisting around him, creeping beneath his feet. What should have only been a ten foot square somehow felt like an entire manor had replaced it.

Every time he visited that garden there was something new to discover. A new path, a new plant, a new decoration. And he knew it would be a very very long time before he managed to find every last detail of the miraculous place. 

After satisfying that little flower-lover in his heart, he would pick a handful of choice blossoms and be off to his weekly date. 

What had once been the hardest day of the week had suddenly been transformed into the most beautiful.

But this story, as all stories do, does not start with that day he first discovered the garden. Yes, it changed his life, but the real change wouldn’t come for nearly a year later. That day, something happened, something different.

But before we get to that day, we need to explain what had once been his norm.

As time passed after the discovery of the garden, Bruce’s routine became second nature. 

Wednesday morning he would wake up with the sun, greet his children in their various forms of shenanigans, and head into the dining hall for breakfast prepared by Alfred. The children would trickle in over the next half-hour and they’d eat, then leave each other to go do whatever it was they did in their freetime. 

If he was being honest, Bruce didn’t want to know what they did when they had nothing else to do. The pranks they came up with when swamped with work were bad enough.

Wednesdays were an off-day for all of them.

Most families took Sundays off for rest but the Wayne household took Wednesdays off instead. 

After breakfast Bruce would head out to that garden, effectively escaping the chaos his children always flooded the house with. 

After getting the flowers, he was off to his date, returning home just as dinner rolled around. 

Dinner courtesy of Alfred was always divine and something Bruce didn’t dare miss. The Englishman never spoke his displeasure about a missed meal aloud, unless it happened more than once in a sufficiently brief period of time, but anyone who dared always knew they’d messed up.

Depending on the severity of the infraction—the importance of the meal—they could be expected to eat lukewarm meals and drink cold tea for the next week or more until Alfred was satisfied that they had learned their lesson. 

There was no proverb Bruce knew of but he was sure there had to be one that went along the lines of: never piss off the man who cooks your meals; especially when you are inept in the kitchen yourself. That was certainly a phrase to swear by in the Wayne household. 

That day, however, something was different. 

That day, he woke up not with the sun, but with the worried face of Alfred leaning over him.

“Master Bruce, are you feeling quite alright?” the butler asked gently, one hand resting on Bruce’s forehead.

Bruce brushed off his hand and sat up, rubbing his eye and he fought to wipe away the haze that came from just awaking.

Alfred answered the unspoken question. “I know today is an important day for you, but you’ve slept in past breakfast.”

Whatever foggy confusion that had run over from his dreams vanished, replaced by a heavy cold pit in his stomach. He closed his eyes.

“Has it been a year already?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“I’m afraid it has.”

Bruce dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I suppose you could do what you always have,” Alfred said. “Bring some extra-meaningful flowers, spend a few hours of quality time, then return home when you are ready.”

Bruce shook his head, finally opening his eyes. “I need to do something special.”

“Then have a picnic. Stay out until the sun sets and lie there beside him, watching the stars.” Alfred walked out of Bruce’s bedroom, then paused just before the door. “He would appreciate any motion, no matter how small. I know he would.” 

After Alfred left, Bruce simply sat on the bed for a while, staring at the wall across from him. 

He had half a mind to just stay in bed, avoid the situation all together. 

But Bruce knew he deserved better than that. 

With a great sigh he pulled himself out of bed and dragged on a set of clothing. 

He would have spent some time stalling by picking out the perfect suit, but he had chosen the suit for this occasion months earlier.

Black suit, black tie, red shirt. 

By the time he managed to button the last button he already felt the twists in his stomach scream at him not to go.

It would have been so easy. Just sit back down and go back to sleep. Pretend this day never came.

God, it had already been a year.

He’d been doing this for a year.

He could hardly remember anything before, but at the same time, it felt like it had started yesterday. 

He clenched his hand in a fist and threw the door open with the other.

He would not chicken out. 

He would not abandon him on this anniversary.

He went straight downstairs, grateful that none of his children were still loitering around.

Alfred was already waiting in the kitchen, a cloth-wrapped box with an egg sandwich on top held out towards him.

“There is breakfast for you on top, lunch for the both of you in the middle and dinner on the bottom.” Alfred pressed the handle into his hand once he got close enough, forcing him to relax that white-knuckled fist. 

He nodded at the butler and headed towards the door.

Then he stopped.

That was an important day for all of them.

The first one-year anniversary he’d had to experience for decades. 

So he stepped back towards the butler, his father in everything but blood and name, and pulled him into an almost bone-crushing hug.

The refined Englishman’s embrace was just as hard. 

“You will tell him we all say hello, right?”

“I will Alfred. I promise.”

With that he let Alfred go and walked out the door without so much as a second glance behind him. 

The walk to the garden took perhaps five minutes if the single street he had to cross was particularly busy.

But that day, it felt like an hour.

By the time he reached the garden, he was exhausted and his sandwich had been long since eaten.

Unfortunately, it was too late to chicken out. 

Far, far too late.

He knew exactly which flowers he wanted for this occasion. He’d picked them out subconsciously almost the first day he’d entered the garden.

Purple heliotropes and pink carnations. 

He added a few leafy springs in among the blossoms to give it a breath of freshness while preserving their meanings and immediately left the garden.

He was in no mood to spend the hours he loved there.

The faster he got there, the faster he could be over and done with it. 

But before he could set foot outside that little paradise, a voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Is she worth it?” The voice was deep and dripped with a heavy Kansas accent and Bruce whirled around to face its owner. 

Leaning against a towering hedge of roses was a towering man in blue.

Such a bright blue, brighter than the sky, and yet somehow Bruce had failed to see him, even highlighted by the dark green behind him.

“I’m sorry?” Bruce’s face was twisted with bewilderment.

“The girl. Is she worth it?” the kansan man repeated, gesturing towards the small bouquet in Bruce’s hand.

“What?”

The man let out a sigh worth of Bruce himself before repeating. “The girl. The one you’ve been bringing flowers to for the last year. Is she worth raiding my garden and stealing my flowers?”

With that the last piece clicked into place and like a lightbulb had been flipped on, Bruce’s face lit up in comprehension. Before immediately darkening with guilt.

“I am very sorry, I did not realize this garden belonged to anyone,” he explained softly, going to gesture with his hand before realizing flailing the flowers around in the air might have been rubbing it in a bit too much. 

Again the man let out a massive sigh, but he didn’t respond with the sarcastic quip even Bruce could tell hung easily in the air. 

“I want to meet her,” the man said instead. “This girl who’s apparently good enough for my flowers. I want to meet her.”

Bruce’s mouth opened up to protest. Any day he would have said no, and today in particular there was no way he was letting this complete stranger come along. But before he could say anything the man crossed his arms and glared at him. 

The glare burned right through Bruce, heat shooting through his head as if he’d explode if the man kept it up for too long. 

He shut his mouth, much to the obvious satisfaction of the man.

“You’ve been stealing my flowers for a year now. I think I deserve to at least meet the girl they are for.” The man pushed off from the hedge and walked toward Bruce, hand extended towards him. “My name is Clark.”

“Bruce.” He set the picnic box down and shook the proffered hand before snatching the box back up and immediately leaving the garden, not caring to check if Clark was following behind or not. 

Now the issue was how to tell Clark.

There had obviously been a misunderstanding as to his intentions, but he wasn’t sure how to bring that up without sounding rude.

Or how to make him believe it. 

He did have to admit that he had looked rather suspicious having been stealing flowers from a private garden for so long, and anything he tried to say to explain it would be brushed off as excuses.

So, he supposed the easiest way to break the news was simply to show the man.

He led the way through Gotham City, keeping a brisk pace and moving ahead without any care for whether or not Clark kept up. If he managed to lose him on the way, he’d at least get to avoid the awkward realization. 

But somehow, the kansan man kept up.

No matter how quickly he turned the corner then ducked into an alleyway, Clark stayed right behind him the whole way. 

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the man had x-ray vision. 

The walk went by much faster than the walk to the garden had, despite it being over three times as long. 

Before he knew it, they were standing just outside the iron wrought gates of Gotham City Cemetery. 

“Well, I figured you were the gothic type, but a date in a cemetery is a bit angsty, even for you Mr. Dark And Brooding,” Clark quipped, staring at the rows upon rows of graves on the other side. 

“Wayne,” Bruce sighed, not sure why he was even bothering to correct the man’s sass. 

“My sincerest apologies.” Clark bowed towards the gate. “After you, Mr. Dark And Brooding Wayne.” 

Again Bruce let out a massive sigh but did set down the picnic box, rather pointedly, and pushed open the gates. 

He picked the box back up and entered, heading straight for a particular row of graves. 

Clark trailed behind him, eyes darting everywhere at once, looking at names on gravestones and the gravestones themselves.

The one Bruce was heading towards resembled an angel. 

Rather ironic, but they had tried. 

He walked up to it, then stopped just before it, pausing for a moment to read the name he knew so well.

“Jason Todd,” Clark read beside him. He seemed to finally understand why they were there, as his face grew solemn and his voice quieted. “No birth or death date. A past lover?”

Bruce’s responding glare wasn’t quite as impressive as Clark’s had been, but he had been trained by the Alfred, so he knew it couldn’t be much worse. 

Then he knelt in front of the grave, not deigning to respect that question with an answer.

He set the flowers right in front of the angel, removing the few ones from the week before that hadn’t been blown away already.

Purple heliotropes and pink carnations. 

“You are loved” and “I will never forget you.”

He buried his fingers in the grass of the sod that covered up the gravedirt beneath and closed his eyes.

He breathed in and out, calming himself like he did everytime he came there. 

When he opened them again, Clark was running his fingers softly over the name. 

Jason Todd.

His son.

His breath caught in his throat and Clark’s head snapped up. He looked Bruce over for just a moment before nodding and stepping away.

“This is not my place. I am going to leave you be. Just, when you leave, stop by my garden?”

Bruce nodded and the man turned and walked away, leaving Bruce to the silence of the graveyard.

“Alfred and the rest say hi. They’ve been doing well. As have I. This week has been pretty okay. Tim’s doing great as the new Robin. He picks things up extremely quickly and has been playing it safe on patrol. Well, safer than you or Dick ever did. I suppose that might have to do with the fact that he is just starting out, but it is still a nice relief.” When he spoke he did so quietly, as if he were afraid to disturb the heavy atmosphere that hung around him. But he did speak, telling his son all about the past week. About the new meals Alfred had been experimenting with, about the wonderful prank Dick and Tim had pulled just the day before. He told him about work, and how the company was doing well. About how that one reporter, Vicki Vale had been blissfully quiet for the past few days.

Then he started to go back a bit.

He told Jason about the past year. About trying to come to terms with his death and failing again and again.

About how it still hurt to think of him and how his sons and Alfred were failing to hide that they felt it too.

About how he missed his smiles.

The sarcasm. The recklessness.

Even that stubborn streak.

He missed patrols with him. Tim was a good Robin, but he’d never be the same.

He’d never be able to replace his Jason. 

He talked about everything he still regretted. 

How he regretted letting Jason go, how he hated himself for ever doubting Jason’s word. 

About how he should have known. Should have been fast enough.

Should have saved him.

But he didn’t, couldn’t, wasn’t.

And now Jason was gone and he didn’t know how he’d ever be able to forgive himself. 

How he didn’t think he’d ever be able to bring to his grave a bundle of peonies to tell him that he’d finally healed and moved on.

By the time he had spilled everything he wished Jason were alive to hear, it had gotten dark and Bruce was exhausted.

He kissed Jason’s name inscribed on the gravestone, then stood from where he had been sitting beside the grave.

He dragged himself out of the cemetery, still carrying the unopened box of food. 

He made his way back to Clark’s garden, knowing that the man had long since given up on him and headed home, but determined to at least be able to say he tried.

To his surprise, the man was still there, sitting at a small white table with two chairs that stood in the very center of the garden, staring off into space as he sipped slowly from a steaming mug.

As soon as he spotted Bruce he stood up and beckoned him over.

He took one look at Bruce’s face once he came into the light cast by a lovely white lamp, and poured the man a mug of tea.

“Lavender and chamomile. Drink up.”

Bruce’s “Yes sir” was one born from years of Alfred’s tea remedies and along with that automatic response came the knowledge that Clark wouldn’t say another word until he had drained the cup.

And so he did. 

The tea brought back some of his energy, soothing the frayed edges of his emotions that had been draining him for the past day.

As soon as it was empty, he set it on the table and Clark poured him another mugful, although this time he spoke before Bruce even started drinking it. 

“He wasn’t your lover, couldn’t have been a brother or father. Was that your son?”

Bruce nodded, eyes fixed firmly on the steamy mug in front of him. 

Clark hummed in sympathy but said nothing in reply.

Minutes passed before Bruce finally broke the silence.

“So, is she worth it?”

Clark smiled softly. “Yes. Yes he was.”


End file.
